


Everybody Hurts

by richmahogany



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Angst, Episode Related, Episode: s02e13 Dead Reckoning, Friendship, Gen, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-11
Updated: 2015-08-11
Packaged: 2018-04-14 03:51:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4549230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/richmahogany/pseuds/richmahogany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They are both traumatized by recent events, but, being the men they are, each has to deal with the aftermath on his own. Missing scene from "Dead Reckoning".</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Harold

**Author's Note:**

> Missing scene? Missing day more like. According to the on-screen timeline, there is a whole day between the rooftop and John's return to the library. This was written to bridge that gap. There's a chapter for Harold and John each, both leading up to the reunion at the library.

It was past midnight by the time Finch and Bear arrived at the townhouse where they were going to spend the night. Finch parked his car a block away and walked the rest, but he only managed it with great difficulty. The adrenaline, which had kept the pain at bay, had worn off, and now Finch was in agony. His whole body ached, and his hip and lower back were on fire. This was the predictable consequence of climbing all those stairs earlier, but he hadn’t had a choice. He opened the door and let Bear in, took his coat off and carefully hung it up. Even now he couldn’t bring himself to just let it drop on the floor, no matter how exhausted he was. Slowly he limped into the kitchen and switched on the light. For a moment he stood there, not knowing what to do. He tried to concentrate his mind on the moment, on simple things like food and tea, because if he let it wander, it would go back to the events of tonight, and he just couldn’t deal with that right now.  
What he needed was a shower, and sleep. But he still stood there, not moving, until Bear, who had explored the house, came into the kitchen, claws clicking on the tiles. He sat down and expectantly looked up at Harold. Of course, Bear wanted food, too. Harold shook off his lethargy and took a bag of dog food out of one of the cabinets. He went back into the hall and managed to bend down to pour some food into Bear’s bowl, but he couldn’t suppress a groan when he stood up again. With the pain being as bad as it was, sleeping would be difficult. He wouldn’t be able to sleep anyway, he thought. As soon as he closed his eyes, he was back on the rooftop, seconds away from death, looking at John and feeling overwhelming guilt and regret.  
“Tea,” he forced himself to think, “tea, take the kettle, put water in, make tea.” While the kettle was warming up, he ate a few crackers. He didn’t feel like eating at all, but he knew he shouldn’t take his pills on an empty stomach. When the tea was ready, he took a few painkillers. Maybe he should take something to help him sleep as well, he thought. Then he decided against it. He didn’t like to take sleeping tablets, he was too aware of the risk of becoming dependent on them. Hopefully with the pain reduced, he would be able to sleep without any further pharmaceutical help.  
He was still standing in the kitchen, although his whole body was screaming at him to lie down, but he knew that once he did that, he probably wouldn’t be able to get back up. He really wanted a shower before going to bed – he could almost feel the dirt on his skin. Part of it was probably psychological, he realized. He just wanted to wash his recent experiences away. He knew it wouldn’t work like that, but he made his way to the bathroom all the same. It hadn’t been a conscious choice, but he was now glad that he had picked this particular house to spend the night in, because it had an easily accessible shower with grab bars and even a little ledge to sit on. In his current condition he was happy to make use of all of these features.

  
Finally he was clean and dressed in his pajamas, ensconced in the kingsize bed and reclining on his pile of pillows. Bear had settled down on the doggy bed outside the bedroom door. Finch was quite strict about not letting the dog into the bedroom, but he found himself wishing that Bear was a bit closer. At least he could leave the door open. He could hear Bear turn on his bed and lie down again with a grunt, and took some comfort from the knowledge that he wasn’t utterly alone. He switched off the light and tried to relax. Immediately the thoughts he had tried to keep at bay came crowding into his brain. What if he hadn’t unlocked the phone in time? What if they had died on that rooftop tonight? It had been so close…  
He had always reckoned with death as an unavoidable consequence of what they were doing, but as he had said to John, he preferred it to occur later rather than sooner. John had tried to keep him away, but of course that had never been an option. It was all his fault anyway. If John died while he survived, could he live with the guilt? What right had he anyway to rope John into his mad scheme? It was as good as killing John with his own hands. If he had stayed away from Harold, he wouldn’t have been in danger in the first place. What John tried to tell him – that without Harold he would have been dead long before – he didn’t believe it. It was the proximity to Harold that endangered his life, just as it had endangered the lives of everybody else who came too close to him. Nathan, Grace…they would have been better off if they had never been part of Harold’s life. And now John. They had survived this time, but for how long?  
Harold’s paranoia kicked into high gear now. They survived on the rooftop, but what if someone had followed him? What if there was a bomb hidden in the house, primed to go off at any moment? He could practically feel the threat creeping up on him. Part of him knew that all he was seeing were monsters under the bed, but he couldn’t suppress his fear. He found himself choking, struggling for breath, nausea churning in the pit of his stomach. He gripped the comforter with shaking hands. He recognized the panic attack for what it was, but was powerless to prevent it. His mind had gone almost blank now. With a supreme effort he concentrated every scrap of energy on his breathing to find some kind of hold in the vortex he was being sucked into. In and out, he thought. Just breathe. In and out.  
Eventually the panic subsided, the air flowed a bit easier into his lungs, and his grip on the comforter relaxed. It was alright. He was alive. John was alive. All he had to do was lie here and sleep. Nothing else to worry about. The painkillers were working, and while they did not provide complete relief, they reduced the pain to the kind of dull ache he was used to living with every day. Finally exhaustion got the better of him, and slowly he drifted off to sleep.

  
The explosion went off with a blinding flash, and then there was nothing but darkness. Harold forced his eyes open, but all around was pitch black. He tried to get his bearings. He was lying on his back, but beyond that he couldn’t feel anything. Where was he? Weren’t there other people around? Hadn’t he been with someone? Nathan. He had been with Nathan, but where was he now? He tried to turn his head, but he couldn’t move. He couldn’t hear anything either, but presumably the blast had deafened him. No, wait, there was something – someone was calling his name. He strained to hear better and recognized the voice. It was Grace. He tried to turn towards the voice, but he still couldn’t move. He could hear her coming nearer now:  
“Harold!” she called, “Harold, where are you?”  
He wanted to answer, but he was unable to make a sound. Grace had to be quite close to him now, but in the darkness she couldn’t find him. She was still calling his name, and Harold made a supreme effort to answer her, desperate to make his presence known, but he was completely paralyzed. No sound escaped his lips, and he was unable to move a muscle. Helplessly he listened as her voice receded into the distance, and then she was gone. Left him, forever. Harold wanted to scream in despair, but he couldn’t do anything. A sadness bigger than any he had ever known overcame him. Tears were streaming down his face, but there was nobody to hear him cry. He was alone in a black void.

  
Harold woke with his cheeks still wet and a damp stain on his pillow. He took a few deep breaths and tried to calm down. A nightmare, of course. He should have expected that. He sat up despite his protesting neck and looked at the clock on the nightstand. He had only been asleep for little more than an hour. He rearranged his pillows and lay down again. From the hall he could hear Bear’s breathing, but he didn’t know if the dog was asleep or awake.  
There had been an explosion in his dream, and he was not surprised by that. Even though John’s bomb vest hadn’t gone off, the bomb in the car down in the street had. While they were on the rooftop he had been able to suppress his panicked reaction to that, but it was coming back to haunt him now. He was afraid of explosions, partly because he didn’t like the noise, but mostly because they brought back memories of the worst day of his life. That was what his dream had been about. He had to make a conscious effort not to let the flashback spiral him into another panic attack. It’s only a dream, he told himself firmly. You are safe, in your bed, not on the roof, not in the street, nothing is going to happen to you.  
He reconsidered his option of taking something to help him sleep, but decided against it. Now that he had his nightmare out of the way, the rest of the night would hopefully be more relaxing. He shifted on his pillow to find exactly the right spot and closed his eyes.

  
The wind ruffled his hair and made his coat flap. He shivered as the cold seeped into his bones where his knees touched the rooftop. He craned his neck to look up at John. John was smiling down on him, his eyes full of sadness, but also with a glimmer of hope. He was relying on Harold to save him, but Harold knew he couldn’t do it. John had put his faith in the wrong person. Harold returned his gaze to the cellphone. He knew he had to put in the right code to shut it down and defuse the bomb, but he didn’t know what the right code was. He had to try something – anything. A number floated into his mind, a long number, nine digits: someone’s social security number. He started to type, but the display swam before his eyes. He blinked, erased what he had typed and tried again. But he still couldn’t make it work. He kept hitting the wrong keys. In fact, the keys moved around under his fingers, changing places, so that he never knew where they would be from one second to the next. He chased the digits with his finger, but his aim was always off, and now time was running out. He had failed.  
He looked up at John again. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I’m so sorry.” John just smiled at him. And then the explosion tore them both apart.  
Harold was flung into the air. He could see John vanish into the distance, ripped away from him by the blast. He stretched out his arms, calling John’s name, but now he was falling down, falling, falling…

  
…until he landed with a thump and awoke in his bed. His fists were clenching the comforter, and cold sweat made his pajamas stick clammily to his back. He must have screamed in his sleep or made some other noise, because Bear obviously had heard something that made him act against his orders. He came into the bedroom, jumped onto the bed and lay down next to Harold, sticking his cold nose into his face in an attempt to console him. Harold was still breathing hard and his heart was pumping fast. He normally wouldn’t have allowed any of this, but now he was so grateful for Bear’s presence that he didn’t say anything. He unclenched one of his hands from the comforter and started to stroke the dog.  
He lay there for a long time, just carding his fingers through Bear’s fur, slowly calming down again. He knew he should probably try to get more sleep, but he was still too upset to be able to relax sufficiently. Besides, he was afraid of more nightmares. No, he didn’t really want to go to sleep. But lying awake didn’t do him any good either. It just meant that he was turning the same thoughts over in his head, again and again, without reprieve. There had to be something he could do to escape from that, at least for a while. Something that would distract him from his fear and panic. Something that would comfort him.

  
At last he summoned the energy to get up, put on a robe and slippers and shuffle into the kitchen, with Bear hovering close to his knee. Normally Bear wasn’t allowed in the kitchen either, but nothing was normal tonight. Harold was glad not to be alone, and instead of telling the dog off, he gave him a treat and mumbled “Thank you, Bear”.  
He made himself another cup of tea and took it into the living room. It was still quite a while before daybreak, but Harold had decided to stay awake for the time being. He switched on the light and went over to the bookcase. He was too discombobulated to make a conscious decision what to read, but almost of their own volition, his fingers moved and plucked a book from the shelf. He opened it and read the beginning:

  
_“The family of Dashwood had long been settled in Sussex. Their estate was large, and their residence was at Norland Park, in the centre of their property, where, for many generations, they had lived in so respectable a manner as to engage the general good opinion of their surrounding acquaintance. The late owner of this estate was a single man, who lived to a very advanced age, and who for many years of his life, had a constant companion and housekeeper in his sister. But her death, which happened ten years before his own, produced a great alteration in his home; for to supply her loss, he invited and received into his house the family of his nephew Mr. Henry Dashwood, the legal inheritor of the Norland estate, and the person to whom he intended to bequeath it. In the society of his nephew and niece, and their children, the old Gentleman's days were comfortably spent. His attachment to them all increased. The constant attention of Mr. and Mrs. Henry Dashwood to his wishes, which proceeded not merely from interest, but from goodness of heart, gave him every degree of solid comfort which his age could receive; and the cheerfulness of the children added a relish to his existence.”_

  
Of course, that book had to have been at the back of his mind. But was it really the right choice for him now? It was connected to some of his dearest memories, but also to some of his worst. He looked at the cover. It was an older book, but not one of his precious first editions. This was just a mass market edition from the 1930s. He considered again, but already the words were casting their spell, drawing him in, inviting him to involve himself in the quest of the Dashwood girls for love and happiness. Yes, he decided, this was the right choice. He could lose himself in someone else’s story for a time, following their fortunes, rediscovering old friends, all the while basking in the glow of the exquisite prose. He took the book and his tea over to an armchair and settled down for the rest of the night.

  
When Finch opened his eyes, it was light outside. He had fallen asleep after all. When he stirred, Bear, who had been lying at his feet, jumped up, picked up his leash from the floor and did the little dance that meant “I really need to go outside now, please!”  
“Alright, Bear,” Harold said to him, “I just need to get dressed first.” He carefully levered himself up from the chair. The usual trouble spots still hurt, but it was bearable as long as he didn’t move fast. He went into the bedroom and, despite Bear’s impatience, took the time to put on his undershirt and shirt, suit and tie. His stomach was rumbling, and Harold remembered that he had hardly eaten anything last night. But he had to take care of Bear’s needs first. Wrapped up in his coat, scarf and hat, he finally took the leash, clipped it to Bear’s collar, and together they left the house.

  
They only walked up and down the block once, at a slow pace which was all Harold could manage at the moment. Very soon they were back in the house, where Harold fixed himself some breakfast. His thoughts turned to Mr Reese. At some point he would probably have to contact him, to talk about what happened. There was no message from the Machine so far – none of the public phones he passed had rung, and there was nothing on his cell. There was no reason for either him or Mr Reese to go to the library. And they deserved a day off. He sent Reese a message to tell him that there was no new number and that he should take some time off until further notice. Then he disconnected his phone. He really wanted to be left alone today. He tried to keep the events of yesterday out of his mind, and seeing John would just bring it all back. And John would want to talk about it – “debriefing” as he called it, an ugly word – which was exactly the opposite of what Harold wanted. His instinct was to shut himself away until he was ready to face the world again. The Machine could give them a new number at any moment, and he wanted to have as much time alone as he could.  
Still, he couldn’t ignore completely what had happened. He had the hard drive that John had given him, and so, when he had finished his breakfast, he set about finding out what was on it.  
There was a laptop stashed in the townhouse. Harold powered it up and connected the hard drive. He immediately found that the data on it was very complex and heavily encrypted. That laptop couldn’t deal with it – he needed his system at the library if he was to get anywhere.  
Reluctantly he put his coat, scarf and hat back on and left the house with Bear. He didn’t really want to go outside at all. His car was parked only a block away, but it seemed a lot longer to him. He made it, even though his heart was beating fast again, and his hand was clenched tightly around Bear’s leash. Driving wasn’t the most convenient way to get to the library, but at the moment Harold shied away from contact with anyone, even cab drivers, and the subway was out of the question. The car was his own private space which gave him a sense of security. Still, he approached the library very cautiously, making sure that nobody followed him. Once inside, the familiar space calmed him down again, as he took off his coat and settled in his chair. Bear made himself comfortable on top of John’s jacket, as he had in the past few days. Harold noticed, though, that the dog didn’t seem to be worried by John’s absence any more. How did he know that John was back? Perhaps he had picked up John’s scent from Harold yesterday, and expected the man himself to return at any moment.  
Harold now powered up his system, and after running some routine checks, he isolated one of the machines and connected the mystery hard drive. There was a lot of data on it, and all of it was encrypted. Harold wouldn’t be able to find out what it was before decrypting it. He partitioned off a small portion of the code and set it to run through one of his standard decryption programs, then he did the same with other snippets of the code and different programs. He hoped that one of them would work, and then he could apply that to the rest of the code. All he could do now was to wait for his programs to finish their runs. In the meantime, he kept himself busy with tidying up his workspace and re-shelving some books.  
He was in luck. One of his programs had been successful, and a small part of the data was now decrypted. Harold set the program loose on other parts of the code, and looked at what he had. That part on its own told him nothing, though, he would have to wait for some more sections to emerge from the decryption programs. But gradually a few things became clear to him.  
This program was not designed to steal anything. On the contrary, it was meant to leave something behind: a virus. A complicated virus that was designed to worm its way into the data and release its poison slowly. This didn’t work by brute force, simply flooding the host system with corrupted data and shutting everything down – this was more sophisticated. He hadn’t found anything that would show him the exact timing yet, but the effects of this virus would not be felt immediately.  
What had been on that floor? What was there that made its destruction desirable? And desirable for whom? Harold dug deeper into the code. The programming was beautifully constructed, almost elegant. Extremely efficient, and extremely dangerous. As more and more pieces emerged from his decryption program, he put them together and tried to find out what exactly the code was designed to do.

  
Suddenly he felt very hungry. He looked at his watch. It was almost 2 o’clock already. He had been immersed in his work and completely lost track of time. This was a good thing, he supposed. At least it had stopped him from thinking about other things. And now he could think about lunch. He still didn’t feel like going outside, but on the other hand he wanted a proper lunch this time, not a few crackers and a cup of tea, or whatever he could rustle up here at the library. Maybe it would do him good to do normal things, and to do them properly. He weighed up his options, and on the whole he decided that the lure of lunch was greater that his fear of going out. There was a Lebanese place nearby where he had been once before. He could get a tasty light lunch there, just what he needed now.  
Bear jumped up and wagged his tail enthusiastically when Harold put his coat on.  
“Sorry, Bear,” Harold said to him, “I can’t take you to the restaurant with me, and you wouldn’t want to sit outside in the cold anyway. I’ll take you on a walk when I come back.”  
True to his word, Harold returned to the library an hour later and took Bear to the nearest park. He let the dog off the leash so he could play with the other dogs, and sat down on a bench. He had done well so far, but he found himself getting increasingly anxious now. He hadn’t realized how much he depended on the dog. Bear’s presence gave him a sense of security, and he wished the dog was sitting next to him now. He had never told Mr Reese, but after his abduction by Root, Bear had been his salvation. True, he had not been best pleased at the appearance of the book-devouring creature in his sanctuary, but he quickly warmed to the dog and became even grateful for its presence. The companionship of an animal who was devoted to him, who protected him and who even loved him had enabled Harold to find his way in the world again. Technically, he supposed, Bear was Mr Reese’s dog, but it was Harold who took him home every night, and whenever the three of them were out together, it was always Harold who held the leash.  
Harold looked around, at the other people in the park, when a woman caught his eye. A brunette, with her hair in a ponytail. He couldn’t see her face, but she seemed to be scanning the crowds, looking for someone. His stomach clenched. Was it her? Was she looking for him?  
The woman turned round, and came towards him! No, not towards him. She approached a hot dog stand, where she was joined by a man. Now he saw that she was someone completely different. He breathed a sigh of relief. Actually, he should have noticed straight away. This woman was shorter, and her hair was a different color. But he realized what had made him notice her. It was the way she continually looked around her, scanning her environment. Hypervigilant. Like Mr Reese.  
He watched as she took her hot dog now, bit into it and carelessly wiped her chin with the back of her hand. There was no way of eating a hot dog tidily, which is why Harold never bought one. He was also suspicious of the quality of the meat. There was probably a reason why hot dogs came slathered in a variety of spicy condiments. The woman managed to eat her hot dog while also still watching her environment and talking to her companion with her mouth full. Harold shuddered inwardly, but not from fear. While nobody who reminded him of Mr Reese could be entirely harmless, he was sure now that the only danger this woman posed to him was to expose him to her appalling table manners. And now the woman and the man moved away from the hot dog stand and down the path out of sight.  
Bear came running back, sat down in front of him and gave him his “I’m the best dog in the world and deserve lots of treats!” look. Harold stroked his head and said “Good dog, Bear, good dog.” He clipped the leash to Bear’s collar again, and they started their way home.

  
Back at the library Harold decided to give the hard drive a rest for a while. He did some more system checks and upgrades, and then he turned to maintaining his various identities. There was some insurance business in particular that needed to be taken care of. “Harold Wren” was his oldest and probably his deepest cover. In fact, it wasn’t so much of a cover than the real thing. He really was a director at Universal Heritage Insurance. He had chosen the insurance job in the first place because he thought it might be easy for someone with an aptitude for numbers and statistics to slip into that role. Over time he had found that he actually enjoyed the work. He cared about the company, he cared about the people who worked there, and he truly wanted to do good work. He now sent off a few e-mails and tentatively agreed to attend a board meeting next week. Finally he powered down his computers, put on his coat, and together with Bear he left the library.

He went to a different place from last night, a luxurious apartment in a modern tower block in Manhattan. He didn’t stay there very often, but the porter recognized him and greeted him politely. Harold had introduced Bear to him as his service dog a while ago, and now the porter let the dog walk past him and enter the elevator with Harold without any objections, even though dogs were not allowed in the building.  
Harold entered the apartment and breathed a small sigh of relief. Now that he had arrived, he had nothing more to do than to relax until tomorrow morning. He hung up his coat and walked through all the rooms to re-acquaint himself with the space. This wasn’t one of his favorite apartments – the plush carpets, the expensive furniture, the artwork on the walls, it all was too ostentatious for Harold’s taste. There was nothing wrong with having expensive tastes in his opinion, but this apartment shouted of money instead of whispering it quietly. Well, he had chosen everything to convey just that, for the apartment to play a certain role, to match some of his flashier billionaire personas. And there was no denying that the soft furnishings in the living room as well as the bed were extremely comfortable.  
He had brought take-out with him, and after giving Bear his food and water, he sat down in the kitchen to eat. He could only manage a small portion, though, together with a few cups of green tea. Suddenly he remembered that his cell was still switched off. He switched it on now. He didn’t expect anything from the Machine on it – it would have found a different way of contacting him if it had to – but there were a couple of missed calls from Mr Reese, and a message:  
“I’m coming to the library tomorrow morning. Please be there.”  
He sighed. He knew it was stupid to try to avoid John, but he was afraid of how he would react when he saw him. He couldn’t shut John out forever, though, and after all, they had to continue their work. He also knew that John would only want to help him, but “I’m only trying to help” was often the prelude to strangers intruding on his life, invading his privacy, making him uncomfortable and actually not helping at all. But maybe he was doing John an injustice here. John had proved surprisingly sensitive in similar situations in the past. And what’s more, he probably needed help himself. After all, he had been through an even worse ordeal than Harold.  
Harold took up his cell and sent a message in reply:  
“I will.”  
He left his phone on, but there were no further messages. John had evidently decided to leave him alone for tonight. He didn’t want to eat any more, so he cleared the table, washed the dishes and tidied them away. The question now arose what he should do with himself for the rest of the evening.

  
Tomorrow, when he saw John again, it was inevitable that he would have to face up to his fears and somehow start to deal with what had happened. But for tonight, he wanted to keep them firmly suppressed. He just wasn’t ready. He probably would never be ready, and he knew full well that anything he managed to suppress now would come back to haunt him later. But he really craved some peace and quiet for just one more night. What had helped him most during the day, he found, was doing normal, little things, like making tea, shelving books, taking the dog for a walk. For one more night, he decided, he would do ordinary things, like ordinary people. He went into the living room, determined to devote himself to only the most common of pastimes. First he switched on the television and found a documentary on cuckoos to watch. After that there was nothing else on television that interested him, but there were more possibilities to entertain himself quietly in this apartment. This was where he kept most of his record collection, and a turntable to play them. What did he fancy this evening? He stood in front of the shelf, scanning the record sleeves. Something jazzy? No, he thought, classical was the way to go. He settled on a Mahler symphony, a classic recording by the Berlin Philharmonic. As he leaned back in his armchair, listening to the soft strains of the music fill the room, he felt a strange detachment from his life. This is what life would be like, he thought, if there was no Machine. No danger, no death, no constant strain to save someone or help someone, no hiding from the authorities, no false trails and hidden identities. No responsibility and guilt weighing on his shoulders. No more exhaustion and pain. But had such a life ever been possible? Harold didn’t believe in fate, but he could see that his path in life almost ineluctably had led him to where he was now. It had all started decades ago, with his first hacking exploits, even before he went to college. Nobody had forced him to build the Machine, but looking back it was no surprise to him that he had done it. He had done it because he wanted to help, because he thought it would do something useful and good and save lives. But he had also done it for the same reason that had spurred him on as a teenager: to prove that it could be done. And as he had given in to the temptation, so he now had to live with the consequences. You had to pay for your hubris, it was only just. And yet, after all he had seen and done, after all he and others had suffered, he still believed that he had been right to build the Machine. The Machine was just that – a computer that did what it was programmed to do, nothing more, nothing less. It was people who had turned out to be unpredictable, unreliable. That had always been Harold’s mistake: his inability to judge people correctly, particularly their trustworthiness. For all his wariness and paranoia, Harold still put too much faith in the general goodness of humanity. He had been disappointed and betrayed, but he knew he would make the same mistake again in the future. His deeply held conviction that most people were good or at least wanted to be good could not be shaken. There were always some who were driven to be destructive and who tried to harm others, but that’s why it was all the more important to protect the innocent majority. No, there was no other way, he did what he had to do. He hadn’t wanted to take that responsibility at first. After he had built the machine, he had tried to wash his hands of his creation. But he had been wrong, and Nathan had been right. If only he had realized that before the explosion which destroyed both their lives. If only…

  
His thoughts were going round in circles now, treading the familiar paths of guilt, regret, and self-recrimination. He mentally shook himself and stood up to turn the record over. The familiar motions, the weight of the vinyl in his hands, the satisfying click that set the turntable in motion and the soft crackle of the empty grooves before the music started up again – all this helped to bring him back to the present and to turn his thoughts to concrete, material things. He picked up a book from the coffee table and sat down with it. It was the catalog of a Kandinsky exhibition which he had bought a while ago but hadn’t looked at yet. Now he slowly turned the pages, savoring the pictures and forcing his brain to pay attention to the accompanying text.  
When the record had played out and he had looked at as many pictures as he could appreciate in one sitting, he took Bear outside for the last time before going to bed. He slept only fitfully, but at least he didn’t have any nightmares.

  
The next day he had already been at the library for a couple of hours before Mr Reese arrived. As soon as John opened the door, Bear ran towards him, claws scrabbling madly on the wooden floor, and almost bowled him over in his enthusiasm.  
Harold looked at John, and it was as he had feared: the sight of his partner brought the memory of that night back so vividly that it flooded him anew with fear and panic, and he could only stare wordlessly. But then he couldn’t suppress a smile at the obvious joy with which those two were greeting each other. With friends like these, maybe he would be alright. Eventually.  
When John spoke to him, however, and thanked him, his fear spiked again. Was that a subtle invitation to discuss what had happened? Did John expect him to submit to his “debriefing” now? No, he couldn’t bear to think about it. He definitely needed more time. Fixing his eyes firmly on his computer screen, and steadying his voice with an effort, he said:  
“Please – don’t mention it.”


	2. John

Suddenly John was standing in front of the door to his apartment, but he had no idea how he had gotten there. He must have gone there totally on autopilot. He entered and closed the door behind him. The apartment was dark and quiet. John breathed a small sigh of relief. Finally, he had a feeling of coming to rest. He took off his jacket and let it fall where he stood. Gathering his thoughts, he tried to decide what to do next. Food, shower, and then sleep. Yes, that was the way to go.  
Food might be a problem though, he realized. He wasn’t much of a shopper, and now he had been away for days. Probably he wouldn’t find much more than some stale bread and a moldy banana. When he switched on the kitchen light, the first thing he saw was a bowl of fresh fruit on the counter. Of course, he had reckoned without his fairy godmother. He opened the cabinets and was not much surprised to find three varieties of pasta, two varieties of rice, various canned vegetables and a jar of tomato sauce bearing the label of a high-class Italian deli. In the refrigerator he found eggs, cheese, milk and bottles of water, and the freezer yielded chicken fillets and meatballs. Harold, who always thought of everything, had provided just the ingredients he needed to prepare two or three quick but nourishing meals. There had been a time when he would have resented this intrusion into his life, not to mention into his apartment, but now it just made him feel looked after. More evidence, as if he needed it, that these days there was someone who really cared for him.  
It didn’t take him long to boil the pasta, defrost the meatballs in the microwave and warm the tomato sauce. He filled his plate, grated some cheese over the top and sat down to eat. He surprised himself with how hungry he was. He wolfed down the first helping and then came back for seconds. This one he ate more slowly, savouring the flavors of the meat and the sauce, sipping from his bottle of water in between. Finally he got up and put his plate in the sink. Washing up could wait till tomorrow. What he wanted now was a shower and sleep. He had left the main room in the dark until now, having gone straight into the kitchen, but now he flipped the switch and light flooded the space. It seemed that Harold had sprinkled his fairy dust here as well. The bed, which he had left untouched after getting up on his last morning here, was now neatly made, the rug straightened, and the worn clothes which he had thrown onto a chair had disappeared. Again he thought that he should be annoyed at Harold for meddling, but again he found that he didn’t mind at all. It told him that Harold was so sure that he could bring John safely home, that he never doubted (or never allowed himself to doubt) that John would return. And when he did return, Harold obviously wanted him to come back to a comfortable and welcoming environment: to a kitchen stocked with food for quick and easy meals that he could prepare even when he was tired; to a bed whose fresh sheets were smooth and inviting.  
When John went into the bathroom, he couldn’t suppress a smile at the thought of Harold going in there and checking if he was well stocked with toothpaste and soap. If he had found that John was running low on shower gel, no doubt he would have supplied a new bottle of something subtly scented. As it was, he had to make do with his old, boring soap, but it was a wonderful feeling just to let the warm water wash over him. His body was bruised and battered, and he was bone tired, so when he had thoroughly scrubbed his skin and his hair until he finally felt clean again, he could only stagger back to the main room, drop into his bed and give himself over to sleep.

  
He woke up a few hours later, with the blanket kicked to the bottom of the bed and his arms wrapped round the pillow. He felt upset, angry even – but why? Had he been dreaming? Probably, but whatever the dream had been about, he had forgotten it as soon as he woke up. He put the pillow behind his head, turned to lie on his back and pulled the blanket up.  
For some reason he continued to feel furious. A few images were coming back to him now – Kara pointing her gun at him, her triumphant smile. Yes, he was angry, angry at her for coming back into his life, for causing yet more death and destruction, and for endangering Harold. This had nothing to do with Harold, he had no part in this. This was John’s past coming back to haunt him, but Harold had ended up being caught in the crossfire. John now felt guilty as well as angry. If he ended up dead – well, so be it. He didn’t expect anything else in the long run. But Harold had to be kept safe. The world needed him.  
Twice he had tried to shut himself off from Harold to keep him safe. When John had been caught by the FBI, he had destroyed his phone and severed all contact with Harold so they couldn’t track anything back to him. He had done it again with the phone Finch had smuggled into his prison cell. And yet when he came out onto the rooftop, Harold was there. He still didn’t know how Finch had done it – he couldn’t have climbed 21 floors’ worth of back stairs, could he? In his desperation to get Harold out of danger he had pointed his gun at him. But Harold, who hated firearms, didn’t even show any fear, only annoyance at John’s empty threat. John often thought that Harold was one of the most courageous people he had ever known, but he was by no means fearless. There were many things that frightened Harold, and indeed when he was kneeling in front of John, desperately trying to unlock the phone and defuse the bomb, the fear had clearly shown on his face. He didn’t like guns, he didn’t like heights, and he certainly didn’t like explosives. But that was the thing about Harold: he was also incredibly stubborn. He might be frightened, but once he had decided that something was the right thing to do, there was no stopping him. He had put his fear aside and done it. Afterwards, of course, it came crashing down on him. He had almost fainted right there on the roof. As for John, for a brief moment he had wanted nothing more than to wrap his arms around Harold and hug him as tightly as he could. Just to make sure that he was really there, that he had really saved them, that he wasn’t a figment of his imagination. He was glad his hadn’t done it, though. He was pretty sure that Harold wouldn’t appreciate being hugged.  
They had made their way down from the roof and had gone their separate ways. It was safer that way, as long as NYPD, FBI, CIA and who knew what other acronym’d entities were milling about in the streets. John had no idea where Harold had gone and what he was doing now. Sleeping, hopefully. Harold had still looked very pale when they parted, and there had been a haunted look in his eyes. John was glad that at least Bear was with him. They both needed to rest before they could process properly what had happened.  
Rest, however, was no longer forthcoming. Whenever John closed his eyes, images flashed through his mind: of his arrest in the bank, of Elias in the prison yard, of his walking free and being immediately captured again. He thought of Agent Donnelly and his fanatical pursuit, and of Kara, of Mark Snow, and he could feel his anger mounting again. Over the past week he had been on such an emotional rollercoaster, he just couldn’t find any equilibrium again.

  
After a few hours of tossing and turning, he had enough. Sleep was obviously eluding him, and he was now so wound up that he felt the urge to empty his biggest gun into some random target or at least smash some plates against the wall. Before it would come to that, he decided to distract himself. He got up, dressed, took his leather jacket and his helmet and went downstairs.  
For two hours he zoomed around the streets of New York, concentrating on dodging the morning traffic which was slowly picking up. He found himself in Brooklyn when the thought of breakfast first entered his mind. He found a parking space for his motorcycle, bought a bagel and a coffee and took them to the nearest park. There he sat, watching people running and walking their dogs while he ate. He had just drained his paper cup when the cellphone in his pocket vibrated. It was a message from Finch telling him to take the day off. He looked at it with mixed feelings. Of course, Finch was concerned for him and thought that he could do with some rest, away from the library and the Numbers. But nothing was ever straightforward with Finch, and he could easily see the hidden message behind the obvious one: “Please stay away and leave me alone.” This was typical, of course. Whenever Harold was stressed, upset or hurt, he shut himself off from everyone and tried to deal with it on his own. John was used to doing the same thing. For years he hadn’t had a choice. During his time with the Company, he hadn’t been close enough to anyone to be able to talk things through. And to admit that something troubled you was to admit to the kind of weakness that could easily get you “retired”. So he had learned to keep it all in, but he knew that it wasn’t healthy. It wasn’t healthy for Harold either. John did not expect a tearful heart-to-heart, but he thought that at least Harold shouldn’t shut himself off from all human contact. He took his phone and tried to ring him, but he couldn’t get through. Finch must have switched his cell off as soon as he had sent that message.

  
Harold might not want to talk to anyone, but John felt the need to reach out to someone. Fortunately these days there was more than one person who would listen to him. He dialled a different number, and this time he got an answer:  
“John! I’m so glad you’re alive. How are you?”  
“Fine. How are you holding up?”  
“I’m okay – a bit sore, but it will pass. I don’t believe you’re fine, by the way.”  
“Well, as you say, I’m alive, and I will be fine. Don’t worry about me.”  
“And Harold? How is he?”  
“Alive, too. Apart from that I don’t know. I can’t reach him.”  
“Not in a talking mood, is he?”  
“No, more in a ‘I want to be alone’ kind of mood. He’ll be in touch eventually. He can’t hide forever, you know.”  
“John, he shouldn’t be on his own. And neither should you. Tell him…no, don’t tell him anything. Just…take care, both of you.”  
“I’ll tell him you asked after him. He’ll appreciate it, even if he doesn’t show it. Thanks, Joss. You take care now.”  
He ended the call, went to his motorcycle and rode back to his apartment. Once there, though, he was at a loss at what to do. He wasn’t used to having days off. For a while he kept himself busy with a few housekeeping tasks, but unfortunately very few of his guns needed cleaning, and soon he found himself sitting around empty-handed. If Bear had been with him, he could have taken him for a long walk, or a run, or played with him in the park. But Bear was with Finch, which was certainly for the best, but still…  
He made another attempt to call Finch, but his phone was still switched off. He looked out of the window at the chess players in the park, but his regular partner wasn’t there. With a sigh he went into the kitchen. If he prepared his own lunch (easy enough with the supplies Harold had provided) and did all the washing-up afterwards, surely that would pass some time. He surveyed what was available, and then went out to get a few more spices and some sauce from a Chinese supermarket, which passed even more time. He prepared a vaguely oriental dish of his own devising, using rice, chicken and vegetables, and ate it slowly and deliberately. As he had planned, he washed the dishes and the pans and put everything away, but even so it was only early afternoon when he had finished. Suddenly he felt tired. He hadn’t had much sleep last night, so why not catch up on what he had missed? He had the day off, after all, so he could take as many naps as he liked.

  
He drew the curtains and stretched out on the bed. If he had hoped however that his tiredness would help him sleep, he was disappointed. Thoughts came crowding into his mind, worries, questions. Like, what exactly had Kara wanted? She had given them the hard drive to plug in, but what exactly was it meant to do? And whose instructions was she carrying out? Kara wasn’t stupid, but she was no computer genius, so whatever was on that hard drive was not her creation. Besides she was always acting on someone else’s orders, not on her own initiative. While she was certainly creative in devising the ways in which she carried out her tasks, there had to be someone to set her those tasks in the first place. Kara was a soldier, even more than he was. It must have been her idea to “recruit” him and Mark as a way of exacting her revenge, but who was she working for now? That she was alive was not as big a surprise to John as it might have been – after all, he was alive, too. But she must have been dead to the CIA, which meant that someone else had recruited her. Someone who had an interest in infiltrating a government computer facility. It was now down to Harold to find out exactly what that hard drive was meant to do and hopefully to deduce what Kara’s new masters were trying to achieve. And from there they might be able to find out who these shadowy new masters were, and if they posed any further danger to him and to Harold.  
John couldn’t stop his mind puzzling over these questions, and worrying that even though Kara was surely dead this time, this wasn’t over. He felt certain that there was going to be some fallout from all this.

  
After fruitlessly chasing sleep for an hour, John got up again. It was no use. He couldn’t stop thinking, but any answers to his questions would only come from Harold, and Harold was still playing hard to get. There was nothing he could do but somehow keep himself occupied until tomorrow. If he couldn’t sleep, he might as well wake himself up completely. Coming to a decision, John grabbed his kit, went to the gym and spent some time on a vigorous workout. When he stepped into the shower afterwards, he felt better than he had in many days.

  
In the evening he got some Vietnamese takeout and ate it in the kitchen of his apartment. Tomorrow they would start working again. There had to be a new number by then. Or even if there wasn’t, he was going to the library to see Finch, whether he wanted to see him or not. Even if Harold wasn’t pleased, he was sure that Bear would be. He had missed the dog, and he knew that Bear had missed him, so he owed it to his four-legged friend to show him that he had rejoined the pack. Although Harold might resist any talk about their experience, he needed to know what Finch had found out about the hard drive. And even if he stayed completely silent, at least Harold wouldn’t spend another day on his own. John had a lot of sympathy for Finch’s reclusive tendencies, but they needed to be kept in proportion, for his own good.  
John took out his cell, but instead of calling Finch this time he sent him a message:  
“I’m coming to the library tomorrow morning. Please be there.”  
Hoping that Finch would actually see the message before tomorrow, he pressed “Send”.  
He had to wait almost an hour for a reply, and then it consisted of just two words:  
“I will.”  
John was encouraged by that answer, though. “I will” was a promise, unequivocal. If Harold said he’d be there, then he could rely on it.  
He went to bed with a glimmer of hope that, given time, they would be able to put all this behind them.

  
When he arrived at the library the next morning, he could hear Bear running towards him before he had even pushed the gate open. And then the dog cannoned into him and licked his face and his hands and yipped excitedly, and John embraced his friend and laughed with joy at their reunion.  
Harold hadn’t said a word, but when John looked at him, he just caught the tiny smile on Harold’s face before he turned back to his computer. When the dog had quieted down a bit, he could at last approach Harold. There he was, as quiet and unassuming as usual, but still the man to whom John owed everything, then and now, who had once again risked his own life to save John’s and didn’t seem to think that he could have done anything else. A multitude of feelings overcame him, but chief among them was gratitude.  
“Thank you,” he said to Harold, unable to put into any other words what he felt and hoping that the few he was able to utter would convey everything he wanted to say.  
Harold didn’t turn round to face him, but he could see his shoulders tense. With his gaze firmly fixed on the screen in front of him, Harold replied:  
“Please – don’t mention it.”

  
Nothing Harold said was ever straightforward, and John could clearly hear a double meaning in that short sentence. On the face of it, it was the conventional way of saying “oh, it was nothing”, or “my pleasure”, or “I would do the same again every time”. But underneath it was a plea: “Please don’t make me talk about it.”  
It was Harold all over. He was upset and afraid, but determined not to show it, to present a stoic façade to the world and not let anyone help him. It would be cruel to force him to come out into the open – like pulling a hermit crab from its shell and exposing its most vulnerable parts. John realized that once again he would have to be patient and play the long game of gently nudging Harold along until some sort of normality was restored.  
He sighed inwardly. Maybe a hug wouldn’t have been such a bad idea after all.


End file.
